


Before and After

by asexualjuliet



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M for a lot of discussion of sex, POV Second Person, Reference to childhood sexual abuse, Season/Series 02, Seriously this is so fucking angsty, Spoilers through 2.22: Not Pictured, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Vomiting, but nothing actually happens in detail, referenced rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26270728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualjuliet/pseuds/asexualjuliet
Summary: Thinking about it, you can easily split your life into two parts: Before and After.Before is good. Before, you’re just a kid. You love video games and baseball and comic books, you smile wide and you laugh often. You’re one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—You’re a kid, and you are happy.After is…After is not so good.
Relationships: Cassidy "Beaver" Casablancas/Cindy "Mac" Mackenzie
Comments: 4
Kudos: 1





	Before and After

**Author's Note:**

> hi i just finished season 2 and have been thinking about Cassidy for at least 24 hours....  
> I uhhhh had a big crush on him and thought he and Mac were so cute so I wrote this??  
> Obviously I don’t condone his actions, but I think he’s a very sympathetic character and I do feel really bad for him... Underneath everything he’s done, he’s really just an abused, traumatized kid, and I wanted to explore that a little more.
> 
> I may have accidentally fucked up the timeline for this one—the team photo in Not Pictured says Cassidy was on the team in ‘02, which would make him fourteen instead of nine, so my bad, but I will not fix it because this fic was written for the sole purpose of being As Sad As Possible and nine-year-old Cassidy makes me want to tear my fucking heart out.
> 
> Disclaimer: I’m asexual as fuck. This whole thing is not my area of expertise.
> 
> (also rest in peace my ace Cassidy headcanon... it was some good shit while it lasted).
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Thinking about it, you can easily split your life into two parts: Before and After. 

Before is good. Before, you’re just a kid. You love video games and baseball and comic books, you smile wide and you laugh often. You’re one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight— 

You’re a kid, and you are happy. 

After is…

After is not so good. 

Before ends the second your little league coach puts his hands on you, and from that moment on, things are different. 

The day you lose your virginity, you don’t even know what _virginity_ means. 

You’re nine years old. You’re nine years old, and what he’s doing doesn’t feel good, and every time it happens, you just want it to be over. 

You’re nine years old the first time you think about killing yourself. 

It’s not a conscious idea, just a brief thought that flits across your brain. _If you were dead, you wouldn’t have to go to baseball practice. If you were dead, he wouldn’t keep doing this to you._

The thought crosses your mind and then disappears just as quickly. You put on your uniform and go to practice, and your dad has a business meeting later and can’t pick you up, so your coach drives you home. 

No one notices that you get home twenty minutes late. 

It isn’t until two years later _(two years two years two goddamn years)_ that your father lets you quit. He assumes it’s because you’ve realized you suck at baseball.

You don’t correct him. 

It’s a year after you quit that you hear the word _virginity_ for the first time. You learn about sex. Your sixth grade health teacher teaches you what _rape_ is, and you hear kids laughing in the back as she speaks. 

You raise your hand and excuse yourself to go throw up. 

You spend most of your time feeling like you’re gonna throw up. That’s another thing that fucking sucks about After: you feel nauseous, like, all the fucking time. When Dick and his friends drag you to Woody’s for burgers, when you’re forced to play baseball in gym, when your girlfriend hints that she wants to have sex with you. 

You have deduced, through vast experience, that sex fucking sucks. You are not a fan, and every time you’re forced to think about it _(when Dick brings a girl up to his bedroom and you can hear them through the wall, when Peter and Marcos decide you have to tell the sheriff what happened, every single time you see Veronica Mars),_ you feel like you’re gonna puke. 

Dick assumes it’s ‘cause you’re still a little kid. Mac assumes it’s ‘cause you’re a virgin. Everyone else assumes you’re probably gay. 

Jesus fucking Christ, do you wish Dick and Mac were right. 

You were a little kid when you lost your virginity. You haven’t been a little kid since. 

You want to have sex with Mac, except that no, you really, really don’t. You want her to be happy, and she wants to have sex with you. You assume that having sex with you would make her happy, and therefore, you want to have sex with her. 

This is how you convince yourself to get a room at the Neptune Grand, to run your hands down her body, to take off your shirt and unhook her bra, despite the fact that every move you make makes an ocean of nausea churn in your stomach, because it’s _bad, wrong, dirty, sick,_ and you’re terrified of hurting her like you hurt Veronica, like Woody hurt you.

You’ve never had sex that wasn’t rape, you realize, as you press gentle kisses to her collarbone, and that realization shocks you to your core. 

_I’m sorry, I—_ you stutter, pulling away from her _—Can I have a second?_

And she looks vaguely upset, but you really can’t be bothered with that right now, because _you’ve never had sex that wasn’t rape,_ and thinking about that for more than three seconds has upset the ocean in your stomach so badly that you know you’re going to puke right here and now, and you’d rather not do it on the girl you love, if you can avoid that. 

You barely make it to the bathroom before retching up everything you can remember eating for the last day.

 _Cassidy?_ she says, and you hear light footsteps heading towards you. 

_I just need a second,_ you say, squeezing your eyes shut. A hand touches your shoulder and you flinch.

 _I’m sorry, I—_ she starts, pulling her hand back. 

You throw up again. The liquor you drank earlier (in the hopes that getting drunk would make this easier) burns coming back up, and you feel like absolute shit, and you really, really don’t want to have sex tonight, or, for that matter, ever again. 

_Is it me?_ she asks, when you seem to be done. _Am I doing something wrong?_

The way she says it makes your heart break because, _God,_ no, of course she’s not. She’s everything good in the world, and knowing that you’ve hurt her despite how much you tried not to makes you want to cry. 

_I’m just really drunk,_ you lie, and she nods. You can tell she doesn’t believe you. 

You don’t have sex with her that night. You don’t have sex with her or anyone else for the rest of your life, because the rest of your life from that point spans maybe half an hour. 

You throw yourself off the roof that night, finally follow through on that vague piece of an idea that ran through your mind at just nine years old. 

You should have done this years ago, you think, and you squeeze your eyes shut tight before you hit the ground. You think of Before. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> All mistakes are my own, please let me know if you see any!
> 
> Kudos/Comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
